


Five Times Skye and Coulson Have to Share a Bed (and one time they don't)

by RowboatCop



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: (even if Skye doesn't realize), Coulson and his ridiculous crush on Skye, Coulson tending to Skye, Coulson washes Skye's hair, F/M, Fingerfucking, Friends to Lovers, Hair Washing, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Skye and Coulson on the run, Skye teaching Coulson how to be homeless, Skye's ridiculous crush on Coulson, UST, Wall Sex, coulson's bare hairy knees, the way Coulson says Skye's name, written before the season 2 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3925894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does what it says on the tin. Skye and Coulson in a nebulous future where May is Director of SHIELD and they're trying to stay off government (and worse) radars. It got a little big and includes too many Tumblr Skoulson sex tropes but whatever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Skye and Coulson Have to Share a Bed (and one time they don't)

1.

The first time, it’s nothing. Like, literally not a thing, why would it even be a thing?

When he turns to her, raised eyebrows inquiring at the clerk’s question, she’s  _offended_.

Should they spend an extra $88.76 for a second room, or share one bed?

As though they have $88.76 to spare. They barely have the money for the one room, but every third day or so they get a hotel room, and this is the last hotel around.

Every third night in a hotel is actually more luxury than she used to be able to swing for herself, but it’s working well for them so far. The other nights, they sleep in the SUV. It’s not as comfortable as her van, but it works fine, and they alternate — one in a sleeping bag in the back, one on the middle bench seat.

Coulson has had a harder time adjusting, she thinks, though he doesn’t show it often. But May can only get them money in small amounts, every so often, so they have to budget. No one ever said that living nomadically and very illegally was going to be glamorous. (It beats out being tagged and bagged, though.)

And finding a way to get a good night’s rest and a hot shower a few times a week is one of the first lessons Skye has imparted to Coulson about being homeless. That and the importance of always picking places with free breakfasts you can steal.

He’s catching on pretty quick, she thinks.

“Are you okay with this?” He’s so concerned for her, so concerned about propriety, when she’s already seen him in his underwear every day for the last month.

“It’s fine,” she tells him seriously, and he nods.

And it is, it’s fine.

It’s a king, it’s enormous. They’ve shared enough hotel rooms that it’s functionally almost the same.

She already knows that he prefers the left side, and Skye hasn’t had enough experience with big beds to even have a preferred side, so there’s no conflict there.

“Can I shower first?”

It’s a formality, really, because she always takes the first shower.

“Of course.”

Still, she always asks and he always nods before she collects her things and heads into the bathroom.

The whole space in the king suite is definitely nicer than she’s used to — she enjoys the large shower, the water pressure, the ample counter space. The nice hair dryer.

When she comes out in her pajamas shorts and tshirt, hair mostly dry in waves around her face, he’s dressed down to his boxers and an undershirt, ready to change places.

It was weird the first time she saw him like that. And not even the part about Coulson in his underwear, although that was part of it.

It was his knees that did it, she thinks. And it’s not that they’re bad knees — they’re not, they’re perfectly fine knees — it’s just that it’s such an unerotic part of the body while still so _strange_. Or at least Coulson’s knees are strange, given that before this she had never even seen his ankles. On Phil Coulson, knees feel like an intimate body part.

Or...they did. Once.

So yeah, seeing Coulson’s knees was the point at which she realized their relationship had changed.

But it’s become normal now. Coulson with his bare knees, Coulson in his underwear, Coulson waiting for her so he can use the shower.

It’s just...normal.

Sometimes it feels like their relationship has been all things, so it’s not surprising that it can adapt to any new kind of normal. They’re good at that — at moving forward together, at adapting instead of getting hung up on how things should be.

If she has to be stuck with someone nearly twenty four hours a day, she’s glad it’s him. There’s no one else she would ever think that about.

While he showers, she does her regular scans — looking for anything threatening, any news from the rest of the team, anything local that seems strange — and they get into bed together once he’s done.

It’s sort of disgustingly synchronized, and she’s thought more than once that they’ve basically become an old married couple — well, one with no history of sex that they’ve since given up, and one that sleeps out of an SUV more nights than not.

So, _them_ but with synchronized bedtime routines.

What the hell does she know about old married couples, anyways?

“All clear?”

He always asks, this formality because if it wasn’t all clear she probably would have said something by now, right, instead of turning down the bed? But she nods, stifles a yawn.

“All clear.”

She kind of likes it, this call and response, this part of their routine that means they’re both safe and alive for another day. Those nights when they’re quiet — nights like tonight when it’s all exhaustion and not much chit chat — it’s especially comforting. Their own ‘good night’ ritual.

Coulson flips off the light on his nightstand, and they both settle in. She’s gotten used to his noises — to the way he shifts a little bit, to the sound of his breathing speeding up slightly before evening out. It’s become soothing to have him nearby, to know that he’s pretty much always in arm’s reach as she drifts off.

Weirdly — or maybe not weirdly at all — it’s Coulson’s knee that changes things for her.

They wake up in the morning pretty much how they went to sleep because neither of them move very much at night. Of course they don’t gravitate across the bed and wind up tangled in each other’s arms.

Except that Coulson’s knee is pressed just under her butt, warm against the skin on the back of her thighs.

His hairy, bare knee, exposed because he’s in his boxers, is pressed against her, so she can feel him — warm and pleasant and just _Coulson_.

Which is when it occurs to her that she wouldn’t mind more of Coulson pressed up against her.

It’s a weird realization.

When he wakes up, just a moment later because of her slight movements on the bed, he draws his leg back slowly.

And it’s nothing.

Except it sort of is because she misses the warmth of his knee against her, misses the feel of his skin on her.

 

2.

The second time, it’s still mostly nothing. There’s a little niggling thought that it’s a bad idea, mostly because her first thought is that she _wants it_. It’s not neutral because she _wants_ to share a bed with him.

It’s been over a month since the last time, but she’s thought about it several times since then. Basically, she wants to fall asleep with him literally within arm’s reach and she wants to wake up to the feel of any part of him pressed against her.

It’s not _dangerous_ , not exactly — nothing terrible, or distinctly sexual — just…

He must see the flash of doubt because he looks extra concerned for a moment, even after she nods.

Still, he believes her.

Of course, the room is smaller. A queen bed and not a king.

Neither of them comment.

She takes the first shower in the small tub and does her regular scans while he showers after her, and they climb into bed together. Same routine, same ritual.

“All clear?”

“All clear,” she agrees, smiling at the words and at the way he waits to snap off the lamp and settle in until he’s heard them.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, but she can tell from his breathing that he’s not really relaxing, that he has something to say.

“I heard from May. Fitz was able to set up another dummy account, so we should have a credit line for a month or so.”

Skye smiles because it’s good news.

“That’s good; we need a few things.”

“Yeah.”

He nods — she can’t see it so much as make out the movement next to her.

“So what’s the problem?”

“There’s someone on the Index that May wants us to look into. In Tennessee.”

“Is that a problem?”

She can’t quite figure this out because it’s what they’ve been doing. Staying on the move, keeping off the radar of the government or anyone less savory than the government, and finding others who need help.

“Her gift has something to do with explosions. It sounds like her powers might have a destructive force potential even greater than yours.”

He reaches across the small gap between them and lays his hand on her arm — at attempt to soften the words — but it’s already generally okay because she can control it now and it doesn’t hurt like it once did to be reminded that she has the potential power to destroy the Earth.

It’s made for some really good public debates about whether she has the right to live, though, and it means that more than a few people would like to be the ones in control of her powers.

“So  there are people after her,” she reasons, reading between the lines here.

“Sounds like it, yes.”

They’ve avoided cases like these — ones that might get them noticed.

“Then why…”

“The hope is that we can get in and out quietly, without drawing attention. She doesn’t want anyone to think that our faction of SHIELD is out to collect powered people as weapons.”

“And you think I can reason with her.”

“If anyone can…”

“Yeah.”

It’s a no brainer, of course. If they can help someone, they’re going to do it.

“So who’s after her?”

“Tomorrow, you set up a secure channel and May will send mission specs.”

“Sounds good.”

He squeezes her arm gently, another soft show of support that she leans into as much as one can lean into it, and then pulls his hand back slowly.

“Good.”

They settle in again, a few moments of movement before everything gets still.

In this bed, she can feel his warmth under the covers even if she can’t directly feel his skin against hers. It’s pleasant, to have such a strong reminder of his presence, and it strikes her again — the urge to be closer to him.

She ignores it and goes to sleep to the sound of his breathing — quiet and steady and comforting.

When she wakes up in the middle of the night, Coulson’s warmth is no longer comforting. It’s almost stifling, making everything too hot, and she struggles out from under the covers, still half-asleep.

“‘S wrong?”

The words are slurred, and Coulson’s voice makes him sound mostly asleep.

“Hot,” she answers as her legs get free.

“Mmhmm,” Coulson sort of agrees and pushes the covers down, too.

As they kick the blanket under their feet, their calves brush — his hairy leg against her freshly shaved one. She can feel how hot his skin is, but more that that, it feels so weirdly _intimate_ to know what Coulson’s leg hair feels like against her shin.

He doesn’t seem to register it, though, just sinks back into the bed and drifts back to sleep.

The air feels good on her bare legs, and she stretches briefly before curling back against her pillow and doing the same.

Coulson’s warmth, she decides when she drifts back to consciousness with her face pressed against his shoulder, must have been a lot more attractive without a blanket.

It’s not like she’s draped herself across him or anything too obvious; more like she’s huddled up against his side. He’s on his back, head turned away from her, and her head isn’t even _on_ his shoulder, just against it.

She inhales against his shirt, taking in the scent of him that’s become so familiar in the last few months, and stretches.

Trying not to wake him, she leans down and drags the blanket back up over their feet, which is when her eyes fall across his groin.

Her eyes fall across Coulson’s groin and the shape of his very prominent erection.

Which she definitely looks at for too long.

It’s not like it’s news that Coulson has a penis. She’s always known, on some level, that Coulson has a penis. Coulson is a man, men usually have penises, and she’s just assumed it’s there without actually giving it any conscious thought.

(Okay, there’s been, like, one or two conscious thoughts, but they were early and quickly forgotten.)

But now it’s impossible to escape.

Coulson has a penis.

A big one, apparently.

And she’s never thought about Coulson waking up in the morning with an erection — waking up in the same room where she is with _that_ between his legs — but that’s an obvious thing, too. Coulson is a man with a penis, and men with penises often wake up with erections. It’s something she’s avoided noticing, something he’s had to handle without her noticing, for weeks and weeks.

She wonders how he usually handles it.

 _If_ he handles it.

He starts to stir, shifting slightly on the bed.

Quickly, she pulls the blanket up, covering him and then situating herself underneath. Her heart pounds in her throat for a moment, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, with the thought of how upset he would be at her violating him like that — looking at him like that.

“Okay?” He whispers as he drags his right hand over his face.

“Yeah. I was cold.”

He shifts under the blanket, and now that she knows what to look for she can see the way his hand moves across his groin, the way he adjusts himself.

Then he looks over at the clock, and they silently agree that they should have at least another hour before they get up.

She doesn’t fall back asleep, and she doesn’t think he does either, but they lie in bed together in the hazy early morning light. It’s comfortable to be with him like this — quiet and sleepy warm.

Skye thinks about his penis and about the fact that she still wants him to press his body against hers.

Maybe she wants it even more.

 

3.

The third time it happens, weeks later, she’s legitimately concerned. But a second room isn’t an option, even if they were willing to spend the money on it, and they’ve already gone longer without a proper shower than either would like to.

It’s not really a choice.

Her problem — and it’s a very stupid one — is that once she realized that Phil Coulson has a penis, she started looking at it. Once she realized that Phil Coulson gets morning erections, she started noticing them.

And she’s figured it out, now, the way he wakes up and adjusts himself, the way he waits to move from his bed. When they’re in the car, it’s less obvious, less noticeable. In the hotel rooms, though, it’s become hard not to notice even though he’s always in separate bed.

It’s gotten to the point where she can tell when he masturbates in the shower from the way that, afterwards, his dick is still thicker and much more noticeable under the thin cotton layer of his boxers.

She can’t help but notice it, which is so extremely wrong but _she can’t help it_ — she didn’t _decide_ to watch for it, after all.

(She starts to wonder if he notices embarrassing things about her, but they had to deal with her intimate stuff in their first month together — all about Skye’s birth control and menstrual cycle. And it’s not like it’s that big a deal, just that he knows it all already...there’s not much more he could have to figure out, she doesn’t think.)

He jacks off most nights they stay in hotels, has missed only enough for her to be really sure that there’s a difference, and she wishes she could get off in the shower like he does — she tries a few times, but it’s just frustrating. She needs to be horizontal to fuck herself, it turns out, and she’s never alone for long enough to make it happen.

Which might explain why she can’t help but notice, can’t help but look, can’t help but watch, can’t help but...want.

She really wishes she could just _stop it_ , though.

It’s just a stupid crush.

She knows this.

It’s a very stupid, inconvenient crush. They happen from time to time, and she’s not going to read more into it than should really be there. Coulson is Coulson — the one stable thing in her life, the only person in her entire life who has really been there for her. Not that there haven’t been other people who have mattered, there have, but Coulson is... _Coulson_.

No amount of sharing a bed with him is going to make her push this, no amount of discomfort is going to make her do something stupid. It will fade, she knows it will.

(It would help if she could get off, she thinks.)

Still, though, as they trudge across the open air hallway to get to their room, she’s nervous about being in a bed with him and his hairy knees and his warm shoulders and his penis.

“Skye,” he asks before she can head in to take her shower, interrupting their nightly routine. “Do you want me to sleep in the car?”

She frowns at him.

“Why would you even ask that? You’ve done all the driving this week; if one of us sleeps in the car, it should be me.”

“I don’t want you to sleep in the car.”

“And you think —”

“I think you’re very uncomfortable.”

He looks matter-of-fact, but with an underlying current of nerves, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to bring up this thing. This thing that, she realizes, has been a lot more obvious to him than it should have been.

She wonders if he knows.

She really hopes he doesn’t know.

“I don’t want you to sleep in the car,” she reiterates without denying her own discomfort.

“Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

She shakes her head in the negative because he can’t exactly stop having a body with warm shoulders and hairy knees and a penis.

“Skye,” he sighs her name and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Talk to me, please.”

Which is when it strikes her how _weird_ she’s been lately. Like, she’s been so caught up freaking out over how Coulson is a sexual being that she’s forgotten that Coulson is _Coulson_.

“I’m sorry,” she shakes her head and moves to sit next to him. It’s sort of rich, actually, him begging her to let him in, and it must not be lost on him because when she tilts her head she can see him smiling at her — almost amused.

They sit sort of awkwardly next to each other, and Skye isn’t really sure what to say to him.

‘ _Gee, sorry Coulson, I’ve been thinking about your penis a lot lately. And how you’re probably really good at sex.’_

He probably is, though. Really good at sex. It’s in his thick fingers and his big penis and his cocky smirk. It’s in the way he _savors_ things, the way he wants to make things last. It’s in the way he acts with her — as though he’ll always take her lead, as though her comfort is what matters, as though what _she_ wants is always the more important thing.

“Have I done anything to make you uncomfortable?”

“No!”

He looks so worried, so certain that whatever is wrong is his fault, but also so... _sad_. And her weirdness has been making _everything_ weird lately.

Skye shakes her head and scoots closer to him so she can lay her head against his shoulder, the first time she’s really touched him since she noticed he has a penis.

She breathes in while trying not to breath _him_ in.

It would be easier if she didn’t love the way he smells so much. Even when he’s dirty.

It’s just _cruel_ that he smells so good.

“No. It’s me being in my head, okay? It’s just...everything.”

He nods. He doesn’t believe her, but he can clearly see how much she doesn’t want to say more and he’s not going to push.

Or maybe, she thinks as he wraps his arm around her shoulders, encouraging her to cuddle in more tightly, he’s just happy with this.

They’ve barely touched lately — not that they touched all the time before, but she’s withdrawn in a big way — and she makes a promise to herself that she’s going to do better. She’s not going to let her own weirdness, her own awkwardness, ruin this. That’s even worse than ruining everything by acting on the dumb crush.

She just enjoys his warmth, his support, his comfort. All things considered, it seems pretty stupid to give up _this_ because she’s unable to squelch the thought of having _more_.

She thinks, again, that maybe she just really needs to get off in a way that doesn’t involve poor Coulson in her ridiculousness.

It’s a long hug, a good hug, a very necessary hug, and they break apart after a minute or so.

“You want to shower now?”

“Maybe you should go first,” she suggests. “I was thinking I’d like to take a bath.”

“A bath?”

“Mmm. Pamper myself?”

“Good. You deserve it.” He lays his hand on her forearm, a kind of soft touch that he used to give her all the time — it’s familiar and warm and _Coulson_ , and it makes her sway towards him.

“I deserve it?”

He smiles at her like he thinks she deserves the entire world, like he would serve up the entire world to her if he could, and it makes her melt a little bit. She has to look down to his hand — pale against her forearm — to keep from saying something stupid.

When he draws his hand back, she's still watching, and as his fingers slip slowly off of her, it almost looks like it’s a struggle for him to make himself make himself stop touching her.

It’s a pleasant fantasy, for a moment.

But then he smiles and rises from the bed like it’s nothing and moves towards the desk to slip off his shoes and socks. It’s only when he starts unbuttoning his shirt that she realizes what’s about to happen.

And even if she’s seen him in his underwear plenty, she’s never seen him _strip_ to his underwear before. It’s not something she can handle, and she knows it.

Quickly, she rises and darts into the bathroom.

“I’m just gonna…”

She doesn’t finish, just closes the door behind her and hopes that Coulson appreciates the privacy. After about a minute of standing awkwardly while trying not to think about his fingers working down the line of buttons on his chest, about his jeans crumpling to his ankles, she flushes the toilet and leaves.

They trade places like it’s a normal night in a hotel room, instead of one where Skye is planning to masturbate in the bathtub. Of course, Coulson doesn’t know that.

She hopes.

She purposefully avoids looking at his penis as he enters the bathroom, but when he exits, she can tell he’s just jacked off. It makes her whole lower body tight, makes her clench way too hard.

In the bathroom, she takes a brief shower first — shaves her legs and washes off almost five days worth of dirty. She’s introduced Coulson to the wonderful world of baby wipes and mostly-dry sponge baths, but still. Running water is pretty great.

Once she’s passably clean, she rinses down the tub and fills it for a bath.

The problem with masturbating, she finds once she relaxes down into the water, is that she can’t stop thinking about Coulson on the other side of the door. She wonders for a moment how he manages to do it, and then realizes that it’s probably a lot easier when you don’t have a stupid crush to deal with.

Holding Coulson’s disinterest in mind actually makes it easier, though, to stretch out in the small tub and run her right hand down her body while her left plays at her breast. It doesn’t help her with finding something to think about besides _him_ , though.

She imagines him in the shower, leaning one arm against the back wall as he pumps his hand over himself.

The mental image of naked wet Coulson makes her pulse under her finger, and Skye frowns at herself.

She imagines him in bed, innocent and not wanting to be the subject of her masturbatory fantasies.

She imagines him in bed, hearing the slight splash of water as her fingers move over her clit. She imagines him listening as she makes a noise — something breathy and small that inexplicably carries.

He might come and investigate, she thinks, knock on the door softly.

She imagines him opening the door, imagines the look in his eye as he sees her splayed open in the bathtub, her fingers moving feverishly between her legs. She imagines him looking at her like he _wants_ her —

Her orgasm sort of sneaks up on her, and she feels...disappointed. There’s disappointment with herself that she would use Coulson this way, but more than that, disappointment that she didn’t get to build it up a little bit more, disappointment that her fantasy Coulson didn’t...

The very thought makes her blush in shame, that not only would she use him in her fantasy, but feel saddened that the fantasy is cut short.

She doesn’t know how the fuck she’s going to look him in the eyes when she gets out of the tub, but she gets out anyways on slightly shaky legs.

Skye dries herself off, uses the mini hairdryer attached to the wall, and pulls on her pajamas.

He’s leaning against the headboard and reading a book when she comes out, legs crossed on top of the sheets, hairy knees on display. The book gets set down on the nightstand as he looks up at her. (And she doesn’t know how he can stomach reading spy novels with characters on the run.)

It makes her awkward, looking at him in the queen bed. And it doesn’t feel like they’re an old married couple anymore; it feels so much more dangerous than that.

“Coming to bed?”

He looks...hopeful. And she knows that he’s hopeful that maybe things won’t be so weird anymore, hopeful that she won’t be so horrendously closed off.

But for a split second, it looks like he could be hopeful in a _different way_ , and fuck she hates herself.

“Yeah,” she fakes a relaxed smile and crawls into bed next to him.

“We’re all clear?” His eyes dart back to her laptop, where she’d managed to run her scans while he was masturbating in the shower.

“Yeah. All clear.”

He snaps off the light and they settle in. The comfortable sound of his breathing, of his warmth next to her, lulls her to sleep.

She wakes up slowly, coming around to her surroundings before opening her eyes, and is immediately pleased with herself for not gravitating towards his body during the night. When her eyes open, though, she’s shocked by how close their faces are — they’re facing each other, and she’s managed to get her head almost on his pillow.

Before she pulls back, though, she takes a moment to appreciate his face like this. His chin and jaw are covered with stubble that he’ll shave off this morning. Even after five days without shaving, he’s got more stubble than a beard — fine hairs that are more salt than pepper at this point.

That should be a turnoff, she thinks — the lines around his eyes and mouth, the grey hairs creeping in at his temples, the grey stubble that reminds her that he’s nearly twice her age.

It’s not a turnoff, though, not at all. It’s just _him_ , and she wonders when she got this bad, that everything about Coulson is sexy, even the unsexy things.

His eyes drift open as she watches, and if she has a moment of fear, it’s overcome by the way he smiles at her — slow and warm and way too sexy for first thing in the morning.

Her stomach twists at the sight, and all the air empties from her lungs.

“Morning,” he whispers, gruff and sleep-heavy, as they lock eyes.

She manages to breathe in, manages to make it not sound too much like a gasp.

This close, his eyes are so blue, but she can also more clearly see every color in them — the spots of brown and grey and green making them so much more complex than at first glance. She’s appreciated forever the way his eyes are so kind, but they’re also beautiful and multifaceted and more than they appear — a good representation of him.

“Morning,” she answers finally, after getting lost in his eyes for longer than she should have.

He doesn’t seem to mind, though, doesn’t seem to find anything out of place about it.

Skye is the first one to roll onto her back, and she tries so hard not to notice the way his hand presses at his groin as he turns as well, but she does. She notices.

 

4.

The next time comes too soon.

But it’s been a hard week — a very hard week — and thoughts about the young girl they tried to get to (the young girl they failed to get to) are at the front of both of their minds.

They’ve talked about it, too, and about the way it dredges up all this year-old stuff for him about the SHIELD Agents that he feels responsible for — the ones like Agent 33 who were kidnapped by Hydra before he could get there.

At this point, they’re both physically and emotionally exhausted, and so of course there’s only a room with a single bed.

Strangely, it seems to be bothering him a lot more than it’s bothering her.

Things have gotten weirdly easier since it occurred to her that what she feels for Coulson isn’t a stupid crush at all. And she can’t quite understand why she ever thought it was a stupid crush in the first place.

He’s _Coulson_. He’s the most important person in her life, and she loves him. That’s always been true.

It just turns out that she loves him in a way where she’s also attracted to him, where she wants to kiss him, where she wants to wake up tangled around him.

She loves him in a way that’s about his kindness and his gentleness and his attempts to always do the right thing. But, also in a way that’s about his warm shoulders and his hairy knees and his penis and his slow smile first thing in the morning.

It almost gives her a sense of peace to realize it, actually. To acknowledge that she loves Coulson, but she also _loves_ Coulson. There’s no more waiting for it to go away, no more being annoyed that it’s there because maybe it always has been.

She loves Coulson and it gets awkward from time to time, but really it’s not that big a deal. It lets her relax a little bit, actually, makes it so that she doesn’t feel such a strong need to hide it.

“We could afford two rooms, if you’d like.”

He’s so careful, so worried about her, and it’s almost annoying that he’s not as affected by this as she is.

“I’m not sure we can,” she counters, raising an eyebrow at him. They can’t, not really.

He nods, but looks frustratingly reluctant. She wonders if actually _he_ wants a second room, if she has made him uncomfortable lately now that she’s not so scared of touching him, not so worried about hiding it when she looks at him.

She makes a mental note to be extra careful not to make him more uncomfortable.

There’s also the fact that Coulson has had a harder time than she has with the drastic changes in their lives of late. She’s used to living out of a car, honestly. By the standards of the ten years of her life before she met Coulson, this is actually pretty great. She has enough food, hotels just often enough, and a constant sense of safety — of someone having her back.

And, well, she’s gone without all of that for long enough to appreciate it when it’s there.

“Coulson?”

She places a soft hand on his shoulder when they get to the room, and it’s a little weird because she generally lets him be the one to touch her.

“Do you...do you want me to sleep in the car?”

And that’s not exactly what she meant to ask — she knows the answer to this question already — but she thinks he gets it. Is he okay? Does he need some time alone?

Instead of answering, his eyes go soft for a moment and then he tugs her into a hug, one hand running up through her hair as he holds her forehead to his shoulder.

She falls into the embrace easily, wrapping her arms low around his waist.

“No, Skye,” he breathes against her ear. “I want you here with me.”

“I know this has all been hard, and if you need some space…”

He shakes his head, doesn’t let up on the hug at all. If anything, his grip on her gets a little stronger.

“No. You’re the only reason I’ve been able to manage this. You know that, don’t you?”

She makes a half-laugh against his shoulder, a noise that comes out a little more like a half-sob.

When he pulls back, he keeps his hand on the back of her neck, burrowed under her hair, and stares at her with such intensity that she doesn’t know what to do with it except melt a bit under the heat.

And then his eyes drift down her face, taking her in. He does this sometimes — looks at her like she’s his savior, like she’s the only reason he’s still going.

The way his eyes dart down, though, it almost looks like he wants to kiss her. Just the thought sends a stab of arousal through her body, and it’s not fair that all he has to do is _look_ at her and she’s wet.

His gaze focuses more on her mouth and it looks _so much_ like he wants to kiss her; her lips part involuntarily, an open invitation. But that’s been her lately in a nutshell — offering him one extended open invitation.

Which is when she catches herself. This is not how she makes things less awkward for him.

Instead, she leans forward and lays her forehead back against his shoulder.

“You think I could have managed without you?”

She can feel him swallow and draw a breath before he answers.

“You’ve done this before.”

“True. This is much better.”

He makes a pleased sound and draws her tighter against his body again before letting her go.

“Do you want to take the first shower, or are you going to pamper yourself in the bath again?” He raises his eyebrows on the word _pamper_ , and the blood drains out of her face at the thought that _he knows_.

It only takes a few seconds before she decides she doesn’t care.

“Yeah, I think I will take a bath again.”

It’s gets easier every time. There’s less guilt when she pulls up the image of his face, when she imagines him walking in to find her, when she imagines the way his eyes would look clouded with desire for her.

The same fantasy as always, but she’s managed to progress it further. She imagines him walking in and looking at her with desire, and touching her. She imagines him running his hand over her breasts and then down her body. It’s not quite possible to imagine that her fingers are his, but she comes imagining what it would be like to feel him inside of her.

She feels less shame after, finds it much easier to dry her hair and finish getting ready for bed, even when she knows they’re going to share.

He looks at her — fond and amused and a touch mystified — when she climbs into the bed with him.

She settles in and then looks at him expectantly.

“We’re all clear?”

“All clear,” she agrees, and he smiles at her, wide and sort of stupid before he flips off the lamp next to the bed.

Falling asleep feels good — safe and warm and comforted, as always, by the sound of his breathing.

When she wakes up, it’s to the feel of his breath at her ear, his hand on her hip, and his cock pressing against her ass.

He exhales at regular intervals — the same sleepy rhythm she’s heard every day for months now — but each one makes her whole body light up, sends chills racing down her spine.

She likes the way he touches her, too. It’s not possessive or stifling; even in his sleep, it feels like he respects her.

Which is when it occurs to her that if he is aware on any level that he’s touching someone — if he is thinking about holding someone’s hip and pressing his cock against them — that it’s not _her_ he’s thinking about.

It’s a disappointing thought, but it’s a good one to keep in mind. It lets her remember that, really, this is going to be mortifying for Coulson.

She breathes evenly and just enjoys it, this tiny taste of him, ready to pretend she’s asleep so he can pull away without making it a thing.

The wait isn’t long, as it turns out.

He squeezes her hip as he stirs, and it’s a struggle to stay relaxed, especially when he grinds his cock against her ass.

“Skye,” he sighs against her ear, and it makes her skin prickle because of his soft early morning voice, because of the feel of his breath against her ear, because he half-moans _her name_ while still mostly asleep.

It’s not easy, but she keeps her breaths slow and steady, even when he groans softly against her ear and then rolls away from her, a half-whispered _shit_ under his breath.

He disappears into the bathroom while she still faces the other way, and she rolls onto her back, trying to find any sense of calm.

She knows she shouldn’t get hopeful at the actions of his sleeping body — and brain — but she can’t help it, can’t help looking back at his awkwardness and his intensity and wondering if maybe…

When he comes back out of the bathroom, he’s clearly handled his erection, and it takes a lot to keep from blushing at the idea that maybe he did it while thinking about her.

“Morning,” he greets her, easy and relaxed and not at all like he wants to fuck her into the mattress.

“Morning.”

“Want to get around and go down to breakfast?”

And, okay, he doesn’t want her like she wants him, but he still smiles at her like she’s a miracle. Like she’s _his_ miracle.

It’s not like _back to normal_ is a bad thing. Not when it’s with Coulson.

 

5.

Their next hotel stop comes just two days later, a necessity rather than a luxury.

“I’m fine,” Skye insists as he checks them in.

“You’re not fine.”

“I am.”

Their argument is broken off as he gets them a room — two beds, no problem.

“You need to get clean and get a good night’s rest,” he insists.

“We don’t need to see Simmons tomorrow, though.”

“We’ll make that call tomorrow.”

He had acquiesced to her on this — holding off on making this a bigger deal — but with great reluctance.

“Coulson —”

“Skye,” he sighs, and turns his sad, worried eyes on her. They make her melt. “Please. I just want to know you’re okay.”

“You’ve dislocated your shoulder before,” she points out.

“Yes, I have. And I saw a doctor and spent the night in a comfortable bed.”

She nods and follows him to their room — he’s carrying all of the bags, since her right arm is in a basic sling, purchased from a drug store.

Things had gone a little sideways on one of their not-quite missions, trying to make contact with a gifted person that had popped up on May’s radar. And it’s good to remember that _some_ gifted individuals are plenty willing to use their powers to hurt.

Coulson had freaked out. Like, _freaked out_.

He’s been in a sort of mother hen mode, and it would be cute if it weren’t so annoying.

“What do you need?” He asks when they get to the room and he drops their bags down on the desk.

“To get clean?” She’s wiped down the sweat and the dirt and the little bit of blood from the abrasions down her right arm, but she’s filthy and pretty much wants to get really clean more than anything.

He nods, and then his eyes fall to her shoulder, as though he’s trying to work this out.

“How can I help?”

It makes her smile — the way he’s been so calm and supportive and gentle. But they both know what she needs at this point, and the idea of it makes her ridiculously uncomfortable.

“Coulson…”

“Let’s get you undressed,” he suggests, and she’s grateful that he’s willing to take charge of the situation.

As much as she’s sort of rolled her eyes at his protective mother hen bit today, it’s a bit of a relief. There’s no way in hell she could ask him to help her get her clothes off, to help her get into the bath.

The sling comes off first, and then his hands are gentle as he guides her t-shirt over her left arm and then slowly slides it off her right, careful to jostle things as little as possible. She sucks in a painful breath and grips her right arm.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, as though it’s in any way his fault that a powered person knocked her out his front door.

Other than the odd apology, the winces of sympathy, he does a good job of being detatched — of making her feel like he’s just a competent professional and not the man she’s been lusting after.

He’s extra careful as he slips her bra off, but Skye keeps her eyes down on the floor and crosses her left arm over her body — covering her breasts as she holds her arm in place.

She’s startled by the feel of his hand on her right arm, but when she opens her eyes she just sees him inspecting the scrapes that run from her shoulder down to her elbow.

“Some of these are deeper than I thought,” he sighs.

She nods — she can feel it now that the adrenaline has worn off.

“It hurts,” she acknowledges, voice a little too small. In the time she’s been with SHIELD, she’s been injured and cared for, but never quite like this. It’s almost uncomfortable, the amount that he cares. It almost makes everything hurt more.

“I’m going to get your jeans, now,” he tells her in his soft voice, and she nods her agreement.

His hands are still gentle as they land at her belly, though she can tell the moment he really sees her scar for the first time because he goes way too still before fumbling at the button with fingers that seem to shake.

It only takes him a second to recover, though, and he works her jeans down her legs, tugs off her shoes as he goes.

She's left in her underwear as he walks them into the bathroom and starts the bath.

"Do you want to..."

He motions to the last scrap of fabric covering her nudity, and she nods. He's good about it, too, looking away as she maneuvers herself out of the panties, trying not to move her right arm. His eyes stay turned away as he helps her into the tub, and he hands her a washcloth and one of the complimentary bars of soap. 

“Why don’t you get...what you can...and I’ll find your shampoo?”

It’s sort of charming how nervous he is, how much he’s trying to hide it under this visage of calm, professional Coulson.

It’s sort of charming how much he just wants to help her.

She sort of doesn’t mind mother hen Coulson. (This is the Coulson who made her grilled cheese and bought her chocolate cupcakes. Of course she doesn’t mind him.)

Skye works the soapy washcloth between her legs with her left hand, tries to rub as much of her chest as she can, but the truth is that it still hurts to move very much, and it’s uncomfortable to leave her right arm unsupported. 

Still, she does what she can — tries to make it so that she doesn’t have to rely on him for anything _too_ embarrassing — and turns sideways in the tub so that when he comes back in, he’s greeted with her back.

“Let’s wash your hair,” he announces when he enters the bathroom again, and it’s only because she knows him so well that she can tell his confidence is false.

In fact, she can see his hands shake as he sits down on the edge of the tub, holding one of the small water glasses provided by the hotel. His fingers look almost unsteady as he fills it in the tub and then brings it up to pour slowly over her head.

“Is the water okay? Not too hot?”

“Yeah,” she agrees. The steam is starting to fill the room, starting to make her more comfortable, even in this most awkward of situations.

“Good.” He says it almost more to himself as he fills the cup again and pours the water over her hair. It’s only when he reaches past her to open the drain that she looks down at sees just how much dirt there was in her hair.

“I pretty much landed head first in the dirt, huh?”

She means for it to be a joke — _haha, Skye was so fucking clumsy_ — but instead she hears him draw in a sharp breath.

And she gets that it can’t be funny to him. She gets that there was probably a minute when he was sure she was dead, when he was sure she had at least broken her neck.

“What happens to that guy now?”

“Nothing,” Coulson answers, sounding sort of bitter about it as he fills up his cup with fresh water running from the faucet and pours it through her hair. “Do you want this hotter?”

“No, it’s good,” she promises him, smiling a little. “It’s for the best, though, right? We went to talk to him, he didn’t want to talk...we should just leave him alone, right?”

“We will,” he agrees. “I’m not sure we should.”

“I’m not sure he meant to hurt me.”

“I am.” He makes it sound so dark, so scary. Of course, she can only imagine wanting to break every bone in the body of someone that set out to hurt Coulson. And, of course, now she can actually do that.

(She takes more comfort in that than she should.)

He pours another cup full of water over her head, and she can see that he’s managed to get most of the obvious dirt out before he reaches for the shampoo.

“What happened while I was out?”

“Nothing, really. But he definitely didn’t care about whether you were alright.”

“I get why he was scared, though.”

“I know you do,” Coulson sighs like he wishes she didn’t.

“But May will still…”

“May will keep an eye on him. If anything happens, we’ll make sure someone from SHIELD is there to stop him from getting taken.”

“Good.”

“Hmm.” It’s a noncommittal noise, and then his fingers are in her hair. He’s gentle but firm enough that it feels like a proper scalp massage — light pressure at her temples and then the feeling of his fingernails scratching softly across her scalp.

She sighs — a quiet breath that lets on too much how good it feels. She can’t help it.

“Good?” His voice is almost too high pitched.

“Yes,” she agrees, a low sound of satisfaction as she relaxes under the soothing feel of his hands in her hair.

“I’m going to rinse you and then wash one more time. Just to make sure I got it all.”

“Whatever you think,” Skye agrees. She doesn't mind more of this, not at all.

Coulson dips the cup into the water, and she looks down to see his hand next to her — in the same water, next to her naked body. It makes her shiver.

“Are you cold?”

Before she even answers, he kicks on the water again, a slightly hotter temperature to heat up the tub.

He’s gentle as he rinses her hair, shielding her eyes and stroking his hand down the strands and onto her back as he chases away any remaining suds.

She sighs again when he massages more shampoo into her scalp.

“God, Coulson, how did you get so good at this?”

She hears a choking sound behind her, feels his hands sort of stall out against her head, and she basically does a full body blush because, well...clearly he got good at this by practicing, right? By being naked with women and washing their hair, and…

She’s grateful that he doesn’t answer her, doesn’t even really acknowledge her question.

She’s also grateful that he keeps working his fingers through her hair.

“I’m going to wash your back while I can get this out of the way.”

He squeezes a lot of suds out of her hair and then piles it all on top of her head as he reaches for the washcloth she’d laid out over the soap dish.

And — unsurprisingly — Coulson’s hand on her back, even through the wash cloth, is pretty much just as good as his hands in her hair.

She melts under his touch. It’s impossible to remember that she’s supposed to be embarrassed when his hands feel so good, when he touches her like this means something to him.

“Feels good?” And it sounds like he’s forgotten to be awkward, too, sounds like he’s just enjoying himself.

“Yes,” she sighs, and she can hear him swallow behind her.

If it weren’t for the pain in her shoulder, she would be arching her back into every touch like a cat.

It’s insanely disappointing when he rinses out the cloth in the tub. But this time, when he pours water down her back and then through her hair, he chases it with his bare hand.

She _moans_. Loudly.

Behind her, Coulson lets out some sort of noise she can’t quite name — pleased but scared, maybe.

He doesn’t inform her of what he’s doing when he reaches for the conditioner, but given how much she can see his hands shaking in her peripheral vision, she wonders if he can even speak. As he starts to comb the conditioner through her hair with his fingers, she wonders if he’s actually as affected by this as she thinks he is.

The application of conditioner is followed, probably too soon, by more water. And again, he smooths his hand down her hair and onto her back as he pours. It feels amazing.

“Turn?” He manages to sound like his professional self as he makes the request, as he reaches for the washcloth again, and this is the part where he tries to clean out all the scrapes on her injured arm. This is the part that’s going to hurt.

She does as he’s asked, keeping her legs together and trying to keep her breasts covered with her left arm without making a big thing about it — without making it obvious that that’s what she’s doing.

He doesn’t comment as he sinks to his knees on the tile floor by the tub.

Instead, he lasers in on her scrapes. The Coulson with shaking fingers, the Coulson making high pitched noises as he touches her back, disappears behind the Coulson who wants to make sure nothing on her arm gets infected.

She sort of likes both of these Coulsons.

Still, after more than a few fantasies that start this way — Coulson seeing her naked in the bathtub — there’s something sort of viscerally disappointing about the way he ignores the rest of her body as he worries over her arm.

The soap hits a particularly nasty, deep cut and she gasps in pain.

“Sorry,” he breathes quietly. “These’ll be fine,” he offers helpfully.

“Not so bad?”

“A few are deep. I want to put some antibiotic cream on them. But you’ll live.”

He looks up at her, meeting her eyes for the first time since all this started, and she’s startled at how relieved he looks.

“You were really worried.”

He furrows his eyebrows at her, like _duh_ he was worried.

“I was _fine_ , Coulson. I walked away from it, right?”

“It feels better to know for sure.”

“And this is how you know for sure?”

She tilts her chin down to where his hands are still touching her injured arm, and he follows the gesture, dragging his eyes down her body. But not in a clinical way.

He swallows and shuts his eyes.

And she knows what this is — this is him mastering himself, this is him putting away the Coulson whose hands shake when he washes her hair. She doesn’t want that.

“Coulson,” she calls his attention back to her, and his eyes pop open.

The desire there floors her, puts anything she’s imagined to shame.

“Oh,” she breathes, and grips his wrist with her left hand. Which means she loses any coverage of her breasts, and Coulson’s eyes dip down to take in the new view.

“ _Fuck_ , Skye.”

He exhales hard and then drags his gaze back up to meet hers.

“Skye…”

And she can’t tell whether it’s warning or pleading or something else entirely.

Whatever it is, her only response is to move his hand to cover her breast.

“You’re hurt,” he reminds her, playing at objection even as he cups her breast and drags his thumb across her nipple. She shivers at the attention, and he clenches his jaw, like he’s working _so hard_ to restrain himself from doing more.

“Don’t care,” she answers. “Touch me.”

She leans back, managing to keep her arm stable as she reclines against the back of the tub, and it’s her fantasy exactly. Coulson looking at her with such desire, Coulson touching her. She could come from the look in his eyes — all heat and want.

“You want this,” he breathes as his hand slips from her breast down her stomach. He presses his fingers to her scars for a moment, closes his eyes in some silent benediction before sliding lower.

Her whole lower body tightens at the feeling of his hands on her.

“Couldn’t you tell?”

“No.” He sounds almost incredulous. “I thought you could tell that I —”

“You…?”

“I _want_ you,” he whispers, like he’s so deeply ashamed of himself and his desire and his hand inching down between her legs, and Skye laughs — actually legitimately laughs.

He looks like he might be offended, so she reaches her left hand up and slides it around the back of his head. It’s easy to pull him towards her; easy to get his mouth on hers.

He kisses her instantly, a hungry single-mindedness about him that leaves her breathless.

“I couldn’t tell,” she answers between kisses. “I thought _you_ could tell…”

It makes him smile against her mouth, this chuckle like they’re getting away with something, like this can’t be real.

He loses whatever shyness he was holding onto about touching her — the edge of guilt or fear — and instead touches her with wonder.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he whispers against her mouth as his fingers slide between her legs.

Any chance she has of answering is cut off by the firm circle he presses against her clit.

“Shit, Coulson,” she grunts against his lips.

“Try not to move,” he tells her in a falsely calm tone, eyes falling on her injured shoulder.

“Make me come,” she counters, earning a startled laugh as he presses his fingers against her again.

He pulls back enough to look into her eyes as he works his index finger over her clit, and she falls helplessly into his gaze. She’s only half aware of the way he alternates his pattern for a few moments before his whole expression turns almost  _smug_ and he drives her over the edge.

It’s ridiculously easy, almost embarrassingly so — the kind orgasm that’s enough to tide her over, but leaves her wanting more.

She just hopes he can’t tell that she probably could have come just from the way he looked at her.

He kisses her, slow and easy, as she comes down.

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells her again and again between kisses, and she remembers _the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen_.

Maybe she shouldn’t have doubted this at all. Maybe he’s always been a lot more obvious than she’d realized. And she wonders, for the first time, whether he ever thought of her while he was jacking off — what role she has played in his fantasies.

It’s ridiculously hot, all the sudden — imagining him in a way she didn’t let herself before, jacking off in the shower while thinking of her.

“I want to watch you,” she murmurs between kisses.

“What?”

“I want you to take off your clothes and get in the shower with me. And I want to watch you make yourself come.”

Like he’s slow or something.

His hands shake as he pulls back, and she thinks for a moment he’s going to object. Instead, he starts to strip down quickly, perhaps a little too eager.

That means that he probably has his own fantasies about her.

There’s less embarrassment when he reveals his bare torso than she imagined there would be. The scar is there — livid and obvious, but it doesn’t detract from the his beauty at all. It might make it better, actually. A symbol of how they’re connected, how they fit together, how he became a part of her answers.

He drops his pants and kicks off his shoes and socks, but when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of his underwear, she objects.

“Slow down,” she orders him.

He looks at her with shock and arousal as he slowly pulls his boxers out and around, slowly revealing his cock to her.

It’s beautiful, like him. Smooth and hard and bigger than you’d have thought

And she’s never really thought poetically about a penis before. She’s also never spent a lot of time trying to catch glimpses of a penis before, so it’s not terribly surprising that Coulson’s penis would be the first to inspire poetic thoughts.

“Skye,” he breathes her name and grips the base of it in a tight fist.

“Help me up?”

Coulson swallows and steps forward, one hand gripping her left and the other reaching for her hip as he helps her up.

Even when he’s obviously overcome with lust, he’s so careful with her. She likes that.

“You need to lie down,” he tells her as he steps into the tub with her and kicks open the drain. His cock brushes against her hip, though, and there’s no way he’s actually going to pull back.

“Then you should get a move on.”

He laughs, sort of awkwardly but sort of excited.

“Do you like being watched, Coulson?”

“It’s a new experience,” he tells her as he twists the knob for hot water.

“You’ve never done this before?”

“No one’s ever asked.”

His smile is pretty adorable, and she wonders if Coulson likes the idea of _this_ or just being asked to do things. Either way, he’s super on board.

She likes that a lot.

When his hand immediately goes to his cock, though, she stops him.

“No, wash your hair first.”

He sort of groans at that — disappointment, mostly.

“I thought we were going to hurry?”

She just raises her eyebrows, and he reaches for the sample bottle of shampoo provided by the hotel. She should be honored, probably, that he’s willing to use their stuff.

Skye watches him shower with interest — follows the paths of every trickle of water and every sud of soap as he washes his hair and then his body. It’s more than a little surreal, and she’s not sure she fully believes this is happening.

“Skye,” he calls her attention away from the plane below his belly button. “Can I…”

“Yes,” she agrees. “Yes, start slow.”

He groans as his hand circles his cock and begins to pump, starting slowly as she’d instructed.

“What do you think about when you do this?”

“You,” he grunts, and his hand almost stops. She can see his shame at that answer.

“I think about you, too.”

“How?”

“Kneeling by the tub,” she tells him. “Looking at me and making me come.”

“Fuck,” he grunts, and she can see his whole body shudder. “Skye, I’m so close.”

“Good.”

“Kiss me?” It’s a plea, this desperate little sob, and she steps forward under the spray of the shower with him. His left hand cups the back of her head while his right keeps moving, and she’s barely touched her lips against his when he groans.

She feels him come on her hip and her thigh before the shower rinses it away, and when she thinks he might pull back, he instead holds her face in both hands and keeps kissing her — soft and gentle, like he’s sipping from her lips.

“Skye,” he whispers into her mouth before pulling back. “We need to get you more Advil and get you in bed.”

“Are we going to share?”

She’s turned on again. Or still turned on. It’s frustrating.

“I think that’s a bad idea. I don’t want to jostle you during the night.”

And he’s right, of course he’s right, but it’s disappointing.

He dries her off and dresses her in one of his button down shirts — because it’s loose and easy to get on and off — but the smell of Coulson surrounding her does nothing for the fact that she's still aroused. 

"Coulson," she catches his hand before he stands up, and she tries to figure out how to phrase what she wants. 

"We're all clear for tonight," he tells her with a gentle smile, and  _shit_ that's actually the first she realized she hadn't run her regular scans. 

"Not that. Can you..."

She sucks at this, actually. Like, she can sort of fake it sometimes, do a bossy act that Coulson seemed to like pretty well, but when she really _needs_ more, just for her… Well, it’s pretty fucking embarrassing. Not something she can ask for.

“What do you need?”

Instead of asking, she uses her grip on his hand to guide him down between her legs; when his index finger slips through the wetness there, she looks up at him through her eyelashes.

“Skye,” he sighs and leans in to kiss her as he pushes one and then two fingers inside of her. He's good at this, at moving just how she needs it, and she grips his knee — hairy and bare below is boxers — to ground herself.

She’s quick again, comes _so easily_ under his hand, but he stretches it out, extends it until she’s shaking underneath him.

When he finally pulls his hand away, the endorphins and the painkillers finally leave her relaxed and grinning up at him. He leans in to lay a last kiss against her lips, her chin, her cheek, her forehead, and she falls asleep before he’s even off the bed.

 

6.

Coulson smirks at her when the clerk informs them that their last room is a single.

This is still so new. A few weeks since they started it, yes, but a few weeks where she’s been mostly immobilized.

In the last few days, since she’s been out of her sling and moving around, there’s not been a chance to stay in a hotel room. And the car isn’t the very best place for sex.

Not that they haven’t managed.

They _have_ managed, they’ve managed plenty, but always quick and perfunctory and not undressing all the way. And he has promised her that tonight, he’s going to make up for it.

As though he needs to make up for fingering her in the front seat after she went down on him; as though he needs to make up for the way she shook when she came on top of their sleeping bags. (They’ve both been sleeping in the back, and it’s kind of nice.)

But see, he’s reminded her several times, the car doesn’t have enough room for him to really stretch out and impress her.

She thinks about the way he _savors_ things, and it makes her whole lower body pulse.

Still, as she closes the door and watches him drop their two duffel bags down on the king bed, she’s beset by this _awkwardness._ Like, everything they’ve done with each other so far as been so impromptu, so fumbled and surprising and exciting.

This...this is planned.

“Hey,” Coulson calls her out of her head as he steps up next to her and nuzzles against the back of her ear. “This doesn’t have to be weird.”

She smiles because when they let themselves be on the same page, they’re pretty great.

“It is, though. I don’t know how to start.”

He chuckles and then bites her — a short, soft nip against her neck that makes her shudder.

“That’s a good way to start,” she agrees with him, and then she can’t speak anymore as he presses his whole body against her back, maneuvering them so he’s got her pushed against the door.

Coulson grinds himself against her ass and exhales sharply against her ear. She’s sort of shocked that he’s already hard, ready to go.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he whispers, as though excusing his arousal.

“Just all day?”

She can feel him smile against her neck as his hands run down over her hips.

“Longer than that,” he agrees.

“What have you been thinking about?”

“Spreading you out on a bed,” he answers as he thumbs open her jeans, “and going down on you until you can’t see straight.”

He punctuates his sentence by nipping at her earlobe and sliding his right hand down into her panties. She shudders at the image, and the sensation, at the way his index finger presses into her clit.

“Shower first,” she half-begs because yeah. She needs a shower first, and at this rate it kind of seems like Coulson kind of doesn’t care.

Given how long it takes him to pull back, she’s guessing he really doesn’t.

“Yeah,” he finally agrees as he steps back. “Go get it started, I’ll get our stuff.”

“You just assume we’re getting in together?” She raises a playful eyebrow at him, but Coulson just looks stricken.

“I didn’t mean —”

“I was teasing,” she tells him, exasperated.

He swallows and nods once, like he’s been entirely knocked off balance.

“Hey,” she catches his face between her palms. “You know I want you, right?”

“Yeah,” he answers, “I just don’t know why.”

“Because it’s so utterly unbelievable that I’m in love with you?”

He goes way too still at that, and Skye’s eyes widen because she didn’t exactly mean to say those words _like that_? Tossed off sarcastically instead of —

“I am,” she decides to double down, decides that she wants no room for misunderstanding. “I’m, like, ridiculously in love with you.”

He still looks shell shocked, which she doesn’t understand at all. This is a given, right? He’s _Coulson_.

“Coulson —”

He cuts her off by kissing her, hard and desperate and pushing her back against the door.

“Skye,” he whispers her name between kisses, and it’s not him saying _I love you_ , but it’s also more than enough. All she’s ever needed from him, really.

They don’t make it to the shower; they don’t even make it to the bed.

She’s almost overwhelmed by his fervor as he slides his lips from her mouth down her jaw, and he cups her breasts over her shirt as he does.

He manages to slow down _just_ enough to be careful of her shoulder as he strips off her shirt and bra, and together they fumble at her jeans and then his slacks. It takes a few tries for her to kick everything off, and when Coulson lifts her up against the door, his pants are still around his ankles.

“This wasn’t what I had planned,” Coulson grunts as his cock brushes against her entrance and Skye winds her legs around his hips.

“I don’t care,” she sighs, and tries to wiggle herself into place.

“I know.”

He smiles and kisses her, hard, as he guides himself into her in one slow thrust.

And then he doesn’t move, just buries his face in the side of her neck and takes several slow, shuddering breaths.

Skye takes it upon herself to start moving, rocking her hips against him and squeezing tightly around the length of him.

“Fuck, Skye,” he grunts just under her ear. “You’re going to make me come.”

“That’s the idea,” she agrees.

“Too fast,” he almost _whines_ into her neck, but draws his hips backwards so he can thrust — hard — pinning her more effectively to the door.

She moans loudly at the sensation.

“Don’t care. Go fast,” she begs, trying to work her hips against him as best she can from her position pinned to the door.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises as he starts to move — hard, short movements that keep him buried deep inside of her, keep her clit pressed hard against his pelvic bone.

It almost makes her laugh because she’s already so close.

As he moves inside of her, she snakes her arm up behind his head and directs him down, until his lips slide against her neck with every thrust.

She comes hard, head thrown back against the door, Coulson’s teeth scraping lightly under her ear, his cock hard inside of her, his pelvis grinding against her.

The murmured curse words in her ear cue her in to the fact that he follows quickly behind her, his whole body shuddering as he pins her to the door with his weight.

“Fuck,” he grunts after a moment, when he’s finally able to pull back enough to let her slide down to the floor. Once she’s down, though, he just leans back into her, head on her shoulder.

She runs her hands up the back of his shirt, lifting it over his butt so she can stroke her fingernails softly up his back.

“What’s wrong?”

Skye feels languid — not sleepy exactly, but relaxed and easy and just _good_ — so Coulson’s weirdness is...weird.

“I didn’t mean to get so carried away. I usually have more self control.”

And it’s funny because she’s not sure whether he’s talking about in sexual relationships or just in general.

“I don’t mind,” she reminds him as she runs her nails up his spine, making him shiver against her. “I kind of like it when you let yourself go.”

He just kisses her, deep and slow, and when he pulls back, he’s smiling against her lips. She loves this smile — the one that makes him look so young, like he’s never known a care in the world. And it’s funny someone could look that young with grey stubble on his chin and lines around his mouth, but he does.

It makes her want to protect him, to stop him from ever feeling anything that takes that smile off his face.

She reels him back in, kissing him soundly, feeling out the shape of his smile with her lips and teeth and tongue.

He’s still smiling when they break apart, smiling with his mouth and his eyes and his whole body.

“Let’s take that shower,” he suggests, running his hands down her arms.

“You still gonna eat me out until I can’t see straight?”

“Mmmhmmm,” he answers. “Then I’m going to make love to you. _Slowly_.”

Because the slowly thing apparently means a lot to him.

She laughs and shakes her head, allowing him to lead her fully into their room.

In the end, they settle into a sort of hybrid of their regular routine and this new _thing_.

He unpacks the toiletries and gets the shower ready while she checks the chatter in the area, sitting naked at the desk across from their bed.

“All clear?” he asks as he walks up behind her.

“Yeah,” she replies, which earns her a light kiss on top of her head.

They shower together, mostly a practical affair, then collapse into bed together, still naked.

He wastes no time burying his face between her thighs.

This isn't something they’ve had a chance to do as they’ve explored the possible shape of this thing between them, but he knows her well enough to tease her until she’s practically desperate for more direct contact. He knows her well enough to know exactly what will best draw her out.

And he does exactly what he’d promised — builds her up until she’s begging, until her orgasm tears through her body, making her shake so much she’s almost afraid she loses control of herself.

She doesn’t, though, it’s just him.

He takes his time once he’s gotten her off, kissing her thighs and belly and generally enjoying her body.

Somehow, though, he’s surprised when she wrests control from him, forcing him on his back when he finally crawls up the bed. To his credit, though, he goes with it easily as she climbs on top of him and sinks down.

She rides him slowly, her body only flushing more intensely at the way he looks up at her — the familiar sort of awe, but mixed with this newer desire that still turns her belly hot and liquid.

“Coulson,” she sighs his name as she moves, as he runs his hands over her with such worshipful adoration.

She comes apart as much from the way he looks at her, the way he touches her, as from the way their hips grind together. And when he flips them over, he keeps the same slow pace, the same careful exploration of her body that makes her feel at the center of his universe.

“Skye,” he whispers in her ear, grounding her to him as he works his hips against hers, slow thrusts that still aim to give her what she needs. She can only moan in reply and direct his mouth to hers, letting them both get lost in the slip of skin on skin; lips on lips.

She loses track of anything but _them_ , of the whole world reduced to just _them_.

This kind of sex, it’s a luxury just as much as the hot water and the soft beds — not something they can easily afford every day, not when they’re living out of a car, not when they have to be aware of the world around them all the time. But it’s nice to pretend for a moment, that it’s just the two of them.

Her orgasm, when she finally comes, burns through her, and Coulson follows behind.

They end up tangled together, Coulson resting his cheek against her uninjured shoulder, his hairy knees pressed against her legs, his arm thrown across her middle as she strokes his back.

He whispers her name again, the last thing she hears before she passes out, like his whole world is bound up in those four letters

 

 


End file.
